


a lesson in vulcan mineralogy

by owlinaminor



Series: these are the voyages of the starship challenger [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7659064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tendou is sitting in the captain’s chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lesson in vulcan mineralogy

**Author's Note:**

> this was written mostly to celebrate the fact that the ushiten tag now has over 100 fics in it (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) but also partially because star trek beyond has driven me to fandom relapse.
> 
> thanks goes to [becky](https://twitter.com/dickaeopolis) for beta-ing this despite knowing very little about star trek and michael giacchino for once again delivering [a soundtrack filled with incredible puns](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor/status/757656695137009664). (the title of this fic is from that soundtrack.)

Tendou is sitting in the captain’s chair.

Wakatoshi examines that thought.  Holds it up to a metal tricorder and dissects it, word by word, like an alien species of insect in the ship’s lab.  Tendou – Tendou Satori, communications officer of the U.S.S. Challenger, Orion in origin.  Sitting – leaning back in the chair with his one leg hanging down loosely, the other perched on an armrest, pointed at Wakatoshi’s face.  Captain’s chair – a seat in the center of the bridge of any Federation ship, typically reserved for the captain or someone they have designated to take the comm.  In this case, that captain is Wakatoshi himself.

Tendou.  Sitting.  Captain’s chair.  This statement, this _image_ – of Tendou Satori, splayed about this symbol of command as though he has conquered it with the simple force of his long legs and easy grin –  is not unfamiliar.  In fact, it is familiar.  All too familiar.  Wakatoshi has been faced with it three times this week alone.

The first time this happened, about a month ago, Wakatoshi had thought nothing of it.  It was the morning after a night of shore leave, and Tendou had been the first back on the bridge for the alpha shift upon heading back out.  Ushijima had arrived to prepare for his shift and found his communications officer in the wrong seat.  He concluded that Tendou was simply trying it out, or had mistaken it for his own seat in a hungover haze – similar hazes had brought worse side effects in the past. A short, pointed look had been enough to dislodge him.

But then, it happened again during a midnight shift change.  And again, when Wakatoshi returned to the ship after a short away mission.  And again, after Wakatoshi took a short break during his shift to check on his cucumber plants.  And again, and again, and again, with increasing frequency, until now – until he’s confronted with this rather concerning picture, Tendou splayed across the captain’s chair as though it belongs to him, in the middle of a shift – no, worse, in the middle of a _mission._

Upon consideration, Wakatoshi amends his earlier thought: Tendou is lounging in the captain’s chair, a chair that does not belong to him, for the fourth time in under seven days.

Wakatoshi stares at the spectacle.  Raises one eyebrow.  Tightens the line of his mouth.  This tactic has been effective in the past – Tendou would pout, Wakatoshi would exercise self-control, and Tendou would retire to his own seat.

This tactic has been effective in the past, but today, Tendou raises one eyebrow back.  Tilts his head to the left.  Contorts his mouth into a dangerous smirk.

“Is something wrong, _Captain_?”

Somehow, he manages to make the title sound like an insult.

“You are sitting in my chair,” Wakatoshi says.

Wakatoshi once read, in a comparative sociology class at the Academy, that Vulcans have a tendency to state the obvious.  He had never found that fact to be particularly true until he encountered Tendou Satori.

“ _Am_ I?”  Tendou lifts his leg even higher – his foot has almost reached his chin.  Wakatoshi fights off surfacing memories.  Highly _inappropriate_ surfacing memories.

“Yes.”

Wakatoshi becomes aware that the bridge is silent.  The bridge is never silent.  Even when they are traversing through deep space for hours on end, no sign of any other intelligent life in sight, Wakatoshi can still hear residual noises of communicators beeping, instruments working, Goshiki bothering Shirabu to talk to him.  But right now, all Wakatoshi can hear is the quiet staccato of twenty-two crew members breathing.  Twenty-two members watching him and Tendou.

This is not the type of confrontation they teach you how to resolve at the Academy.

“I’m in your chair,” Tendou says lazily.  

This statement has been repeated ad nauseum, to the point where Wakatoshi is starting to think it might be burned upon his consciousness, like a Starfleet regulation, or the equation for general relativity.  And then, Tendou adds new information, turns the situation one hundred and eighty degrees and begins shooting at it -

“What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Wait for you to get out,” Wakatoshi replies.

Tendou stares at him – discerning, calculating, the way he looks at leaders on primitive planets when they start to object to the terms of Starfleet’s treaty.  It’s a stare Wakatoshi has found innumerably valuable in completing diplomatic missions without resorting to force.  He never thought he would find it directed at _him._

Wakatoshi puts his emotions aside.  Packs them away into a compartment inside his mind to be dealt with at a later time.  Plants himself in front of his chair like a tree taking root.  If there is one thing he is certain of, it is that he can wait longer than Tendou.

Outside the sphere of his concentration, Wakatoshi hears Goshiki whisper something to Shirabu.  If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was, _“We’re all gonna die.”_

Tendou’s smirk widens dangerously.  Wakatoshi squares his shoulders.  Tendou folds his arms behind his head.  Wakatoshi links his hands together behind his back.  Tendou pushes the chair even further back – and just as Wakatoshi is beginning to fear that he will fall out of the chair altogether, a new voice interrupts their silent battle.

“Captain,” Reon says.  “We’re being hailed.”

“I thought they weren’t supposed to have technology advanced enough to scan beyond their atmosphere?” Shirabu asks.

“That is what the report stated,” Wakatoshi replies, turning away from the chair and striding towards the front of the bridge to peer at the planet slowly advancing on the main screen.  “But I believe that report is from several decades ago.  It is possible that they have advanced beyond the standard rate of acceleration.”

And just like that, the Challenger is back to its neutral state of comfortable chaos, the mission is underway, the tension is broken.  Tendou slips out of the captain’s chair and slinks across the bridge to his own.  His body language says that he’s been defeated, but Wakatoshi – Wakatoshi catches a glimpse of his face as he turns, stares.

This isn’t over.

* * *

Wakatoshi is unsurprised to find Satori in his room after the mission.

The captain is tired, worn out – the mission had required him to beam down to the planet and duel the leaders of several warring tribes in order to demonstrate the Federation’s superiority, and he will certainly be suffering from the aftermath in the morning, not to mention the fact that one of his favorite shirts proved a casualty of the fighting.  He was hoping to catch up on his favorite botanical journal, then sleep for several hours. But he was regrettably aware that, as a result of the events of that morning, such a scenario had approximately a 3.5% likelihood of occurring.

Still, he takes small comfort in disposing of his ripped shirt and stripping out of his uniform pants, exchanging them for more comfortable, loosely fitting garments, before addressing the situation at hand.

“You are lying in my bed,” he tells Satori, his back to the furniture in question.  There will be a sizeable bruise on his collarbone tomorrow, he determines.

“Am I?” Satori retorts.

Wakatoshi opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, Satori answers for him, voice pitched deep in some kind of absurd mockery.  “ _Yes._  What’re you gonna do about it?   _Wait for you to get out._  Can we skip this?  I’m tired already.”

Wakatoshi reflects, privately, that he doubts Satori is aware of the correct dictionary definition of “tired” – that, or he has never experienced real weariness.  Satori seems to operate constantly at high capacity, always shouting louder, jumping higher, going further.  Wakatoshi has never understood why Satori does not better conserve his energy, but then, he thinks, perhaps that restless enthusiasm is part of what endeared him to the man in the first place.

“What is troubling you?” Wakatoshi asks, turning to take a seat on the bed.  Satori is sprawled across the head, hair bright red against the gray pillows.  He looks as he did in the captain’s chair earlier – taking ownership of a space merely by occupying it with a grin.  But, Wakatoshi notes, he is only lying _on top_ of the bed.  The blankets beneath him remain untouched.

“See, this is what I like about dating Vulcans,” Satori says.  “You always get right to the point.”

“I cannot say the same for Orions,” Wakatoshi replies.  “Primarily because saying anything of the sort would be a crass stereotype, and wholly contradictory of the impartiality befitting a Starfleet captain.”

Satori sighs and rolls over onto his stomach, letting his feet dangle off the side of the bed.  “Oh, cut the crap, Ushijima,” he says into the blankets.  “Can’t we talk like … like real people?”

“We _are_ real people,” Wakatoshi tells him.

“Yeah, but I mean.  I mean.  Can’t we _talk_ , instead of staring at each other until Goshiki convinces himself we’re going to cause the whole goddamn bridge to explode?”

“His concern is impractical.  Emotion is not a sufficient detonator to –”

“Ushijima.  This is what I’m talking about.”  Satori rolls back onto his stomach, looks up at Wakatoshi.  His voice goes quiet, suddenly, and Wakatoshi is reminded of how he’d looked seven weeks two days five hours ago, when he said that –

Wakatoshi dismisses the memory.  It’s distracting.  He can’t afford to be distracted, not now, when nothing Satori says makes sense.

“What are you talking about?” Wakatoshi asks.  “What is bothering you?”

“The chair.”  Satori hesitates, then adds, “You don’t want me sitting in your chair.”

Wakatoshi starts to say that it isn’t a matter of _wanting_ , it’s a matter of _protocol_ , that everyone on the bridge has a chair assigned to their respective position and he fails to understand why Satori would want to sit in the captain’s when his own is located closer to his workstation and is perfectly comfortable – but then, Wakatoshi reconsiders.  Thinks back.  Pictures Satori’s face, as he returned to his own seat.  His face – disappointed.  Defeated.

Satori violated protocol, but Wakatoshi violated something else.

“The chair,” he says slowly, “is a metaphor.”

Satori’s eyes widen – and then he begins to laugh, giggles giving way to full-on, head thrown back, raucous laughter.  Loud enough that Wakatoshi fears Reon will be able to hear it from the next room.  Wakatoshi is no less confused than before, but he thinks that this is a good sign.

“Yeah, Wakatoshi,” Satori finally says, between cackles.  “You could say that.”

“Orions are very strange,” Wakatoshi observes.

“I could say the same about Vulcans,” Satori replies, doing that deep-voice Wakatoshi imitation again.  It is a terrible imitation, accuracy-wise, but he seems to find it amusing, so Wakatoshi says nothing.

Satori sits up and settles on Wakatoshi’s shoulder, both of them now leaning against the headboard.  For a moment, all is quiet.

Wakatoshi collects his thoughts, then says, “You did not want me to wait for you to leave the chair.  You wanted me to … do something.”

“ _Do_ something,” Satori agrees.  Wakatoshi fails to understand the repetition at first, but then he notes the change in inflection, the odd dancing of Satori’s eyebrows up and down on his forehead.

“You wanted me to … physically force you out of the chair,” Wakatoshi goes on.  Satori’s head is on his shoulder, Satori’s thoughts are dancing across his mind – unshielded, bright, tinged in wanting, tinged in _come on make me **make me**.  _ Wakatoshi had been told as a child that being a touch telepath would one day become a disadvantage, but he had never realized that it would happen quite like this.

“Physically force is not quite the correct phrase,” he corrects himself.  “You wanted me to … impose myself upon you.  In front of the entire bridge crew?”

Wakatoshi pulls back, until he can look at Satori instead of touching him.  This is the kind of explanation that, he thinks, he needs to hear rather than feel – he needs concise words, concrete explanations.

“It wasn’t the entire bridge crew, at first,” Satori explains.  “It was just us, alone on the bridge.  You were acting _professional,_ and I wanted to get you out of _professional._  But then you didn’t get it, so I kept trying – it became a challenge.   _Can I drive Wakatoshi to a public display of affection in front of the crew._  Apparently, I can’t.”

“But surely a public display of affection in front of the crew would be illogical?” Wakatoshi asks.  “It goes against Starfleet’s no fraternization between officers policy.”

Satori rolls his eyes.  “No fraternization my _ass._  You’ve seen Semi and Shirabu making out in the turbolift – hell, half the ship has.”

Wakatoshi is one of the smartest Vulcans of his generation.  He can lead his ship out of impossible battles, forge peace treaties between races with centuries-long disputes, identify alien plant species within seconds of examining them.  He graduated at the top of his class at the Academy and has been awarded numerous commendations, been given one of the fleet’s finest ships.  But sometimes, talking to Satori, he thinks that his mind is missing some crucial processing region.

“Then what was your objective?” he asks.

“It was …” Satori trails off, staring down at the blanket.  He fingers its edge idly, picking apart the threads.  “Wakatoshi, sometimes, I feel like you’re two different people.  There’s the you who’s a captain, strong and brave and someone we’d all follow to the end of the galaxy – but stoic and emotionless and so damn _professional_ sometimes I want to rip the bangs right off your head.  And then, there’s the you who’s _here_ , who listens to me talk about anime for hours, who lets me sleep on his shoulder, who kisses like he took a class on it at the Academy.  And I just wanted – I wanted to bring some of _this_ you into _that_ you.  Because no matter what you do when we’re alone, the you who’s on the bridge and on away missions and in meetings never seems to change.  Fuck, you don’t even call me by my first _name._ ”

Satori has frayed the edge of the blanket so much, it is now releasing threads.  Wakatoshi has not heard him speak this seriously and with this much uncertainty since – since seven weeks two days five hours ago.  

Wakatoshi puts the pieces together slowly.  He has never been skilled at determining feelings, but he is learning.  Satori is teaching him.

“Did you think that … I was ashamed of you?” he asks quietly.

Satori doesn’t answer.

“I apologize,” Wakatoshi says, putting his hand on Satori’s, attempting to convey what he cannot put into words.  “I merely thought of keeping the personal separate from the professional.  I never considered your feelings, or asked your motivations, or … checked with you at all.  I have failed in my duties as –”

“Hey,” Satori interrupts.  He looks up – looks at Wakatoshi, for what seems like the first time in hours – then moves closer, leans in, presses a kiss to the side of Wakatoshi’s mouth.  He’s transferring emotions again, but this time they aren’t harsh or angry – this feels like warmth, forgiveness.  “It’s okay.”

“But I did not realize,” Wakatoshi insists.  “I did not acknowledge.  I caused you to believe that I was ashamed of our relationship, when I am not, in the slightest.”

Satori kisses him again, again – now on his cheeks, now his nose, now his lips.  He kisses soft and delicate, with the faintest edge of urgency – he kisses like a promise.

“I know,” Satori says.  “I know now.  It was miscommunication.”

“But I should do something,” Wakatoshi goes on.  “I could –” Satori kisses him again, and he loses his train of thought for a moment, before continuing, “I could call an emergency senior staff meeting right now.”

“Yeah,” Tendou says, fingers sliding over the curves of Wakatoshi’s hips.  “Yeah.  Do that.”

“Okay.”  Wakatoshi extricates himself, slips off of the bed and begins to put back on his pants.

“Wait, wait!”

He stops, one leg in and one leg out.  Looking at Satori.

“Not _right now,_ ” Satori says.  He spreads his legs invitingly, leans back against the headboard, grins wickedly.  He looks as he did in the chair earlier – cunning, gleeful, proprietary – but more mischievous, more daring, gazing eyes half-lidded at Wakatoshi and Wakatoshi alone.

“Not right now,” Wakatoshi agrees.

His pants fall to the ground unfolded.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Wakatoshi does call that emergency staff meeting.

“I have an important announcement to make,” he tells his crew.

They fall silent at his proclamation – Reon puts away his PADD, Goshiki stops bothering Kawanishi, Shirabu breaks off mid-rant to Yamagata.  Seven heads turn, fourteen eyes stare at Wakatoshi.  Waiting.

He practiced the precise syntax of the statement he’s about to make at least twenty times, with Satori sitting beside him, tweaking every word – but the words still feel strange, tumbling out of his mouth.  The personal forced into a professional context.

“Lieutenant Tendou and I are romantically involved.  This relationship should not affect our professional relationship as crew members, nor should it affect the dynamic of our team as a whole, but in the interest of full disclosure –”

“Dude,” Semi interrupts.  “Is that really it?  You and Tendou are _romantically involved?_ ”

“More like _romantically and sexually involved_ ,” Yamagata adds.  “Tendou’s room is _right_ next to mine.”

“At least you don’t have to watch them _look at each other_ all day,” Shirabu cuts in.

“I thought you were going to announce that you were dying!” Goshiki exclaims.  “Or worse – leaving the Challenger!”

Wakatoshi looks around at his senior staff – all of whom seem completely unsurprised by his announcement.  “You … already knew?”

“You aren’t exactly subtle,” Reon remarks.  He takes his PADD back out.  “Now, if that’s all you wanted to announce, this is as good a time as any to discuss our next mission to explore an as-yet-uncharted system in the Delta quadrant …”

Wakatoshi turns to Tendou – to Satori.  He was not prepared for this outcome.  Shock – yes.  Disdain – yes.  But the fact that they’d already known?  He is unsure how to proceed, and so he turns to the most skillful communicator he knows.

Satori just grins and takes Wakatoshi’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> [12:53:08 PM] betsy: anyway the next thing i want to write is a goshihina fic called "enterprising young men"  
> [12:53:29 PM] FUCK: quick question why are u like this  
> [12:54:55 PM] betsy: star trek owns my ass is why  
> [12:55:27 PM] betsy: remember how in st into darkness there's that moment where benedick cucumber as khan goes really loudly YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME SLEEP  
> [12:56:01 PM] betsy: that's my 2013 star trek loving self, awakening after seeing st beyond  
> [12:56:19 PM] betsy: except that now she is a better writer and more capable of literary analysis. and the movie was better.
> 
> please drag my star trek-loving ass on [twitter](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor) and/or [tumblr](http://owlinaminor.tumblr.com/)


End file.
